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He placed the empty bowl in the dishwasher and padded his way to the lone bathroom, where several girlie products cluttered the area around the sink. There was also a small plastic container with both an upper and a lower retainer still inside. Claire had worn braces. At least, he thought she had, so these must be hers. But why would his niece leave them here?
Then he noticed the two tiny scraps of damp, red material hung over the towel rack. He picked up what must be the bottom to the smallest bikini in the world and frowned. No wonder she was sneaking in to use his beach house. No way would her father, Zeke Grant, Whispering Bay’s chief of police, let his teenage daughter wear anything this skimpy.
Luke finished up in the bathroom, pulled off his T-shirt and shorts, and headed for bed. He’d call Mimi in the morning. He didn’t want to get his niece in trouble, but it was his responsibility to let her parents know what he’d found.
He opened the door to his bedroom, switched on the light, and froze. His bed was mussed and there was a lump huddled beneath his comforter. The lump flipped over to change position, giving him a glimpse of slender, tan legs and a head full of blond hair.
Definitely not his niece.
Someone had snuck in here and rearranged his furniture.
She’d drunk all his scotch.
And she was now sleeping in his bed.
“Hey! Whoever you are, wake up.”
A woman sat straight up in his bed, causing the comforter to fall off to the side. “What?” A pair of big, green eyes blinked hard, then rounded in shock. “Oh my God!” The shriek nearly pierced his eardrums. She grabbed the sheets and pulled them up to her chin, but it was too late. He’d already gotten more than an eyeful.
There was a naked woman in his bed.
Correction: A naked blonde.
A very attractive naked blonde.
Chapter Three
Sarah’s mother had always warned her about the dangers of not wearing underwear. But the “just in case you get in an accident” rule didn’t include being caught in the buff by a strange man. A very handsome strange man.
She narrowed her eyes as recognition set in. It was the hottie from the pictures in the living room. Which meant said hottie standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs was none other than Luke Powers, the owner of this house.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she blurted.
“I’m not supposed to be here?” His broad shoulders and muscled chest spoke of a man who took his workouts seriously.
“Um, can you please put some clothes on?” she squeaked, trying not to stare, but really, it was impossible not to with all that skin hitting her straight in the face.
“I have a strong feeling that right now I’ve got more clothes on than you do.”
Her face shot up in flames. She’d gone for a swim in the gulf, then showered and landed straight in bed, too exhausted to think about putting on pajamas. Early mornings and busy days working at The Bistro were kicking her butt. “What…what time is it?”
“It’s past two in the morning and that’s my bed you’re sleeping in. So, if you wouldn’t mind?” His voice was just like his scotch. Rich and warm and disturbing to her belly in a way that made every cell in her body sit up and take notice.
Oh God. She just remembered that she’d drunk all his scotch. Not all of it, of course, the bottle had only been a quarter full, but over the past month she’d finished it a little at a time. She’d only meant to take one tiny sip, but she’d never tasted whisky that good and it had been addictive. Hopefully, she could replace the bottle before he realized it was gone.
“Let me get this straight. You’re kicking me out of your bed?” Then she shook her head because that certainly sounded all wrong.
“You can either get out of it or scoot over. Either way, I’m about to hit those sheets. It’s your choice, Goldilocks.”
Goldilocks?
“My name is Sarah Jamison,” she said, trying to take control of a rapidly deteriorating situation. “And I rented the house for the summer from your sister Mimi. She said you never come here.”
She tried once again not to stare at him, but he was just as gorgeous as those pictures he kept of himself in the living room. He must be at least six-two, with wavy brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Sarah couldn’t watch a simple TV show without the distraction of those photos. Her favorite was one of him in a black tux with a drink in his hand and a million-dollar smile on his face. She’d thought it was impossible that anyone could be that good looking in real life.
She was wrong.
But what kind of man kept a dozen framed photos of himself and his beautiful girlfriend on display? A narcissist, that’s who.
